


Never Held Back, Always Held In Arms

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Frottage, M/M, Panties, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob has been a Certified Immune Worker for nearly a decade. Each day he gets up, has sex with werewolves, hangs out with werewolves, has more sex with werewolves, and falls asleep in a bed not his own. He can't even remember the last time he saw his own bedroom. But that's a small price to pay, when he considers all the good he's doing for society.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Held Back, Always Held In Arms

It takes Bob a minute to place himself when he wakes up. He’s woken up in a lot of places over the years. It’s an occupational hazard, along with chafing and a never ending stream of hickies. Bob rolls onto his back and flings out an arm successfully, without bumping into another body. So he’s by himself, then. Without a helpful hint like a mouth on his cock -he’s worked with the same five long enough that he could distinguish between techniques- Bob’ll have to rely on other clues. Which means he has to open his eyes.

He gropes the bedding for his phone. Bob leaves it on the pillow when he crashes, wherever he crashes, but more often than not it falls down into the bed by morning. He cracks an eye open to check his phone to make sure that’s not what woke up him. It’s devoid of new messages. The last is from Wynne at 6:18, demanding his presence. 

Duh. Of course this is Wynne’s apartment. The walls are beige, after all. His signature colour. It’s like he tries to suppress his other side by wringing each drop of excitement out of his life. He’s an accountant, for fucksakes. But it just doesn’t work like that, which is why Bob’s here.

Propped up on one elbow Bob considers his options. A) He could try to go back to sleep. It probably wouldn’t work. He’s trained himself over the last decade to be polyphasic. Three hours is about as much as he can get in one go. But trying couldn’t hurt. B) He could stay here. It’s part of the contract that he’s got full run of the place. It’s ten, Wynne will be back in a few hours and there’s no doubt in Bob’s mind Wynne will want a lunch quickie. On the other hand, staying here is running on the assumption that one of his other clients won’t want him until afternoon. Highly fucking unlikely. He should just go to the coffeeshop.

In the end it’s a bit of column b, and a bit of column c. He stays long enough to take a shower and make a cheese sandwich. Moon Roast sells light cafe food, but he’ll have to pay for it. Despite his salary, Bob is cheap.

Of his five assigned clients, three work at Moon Roast. Working at a coffeehouse is a combination of too exciting and too beneath Wynne. Brian isn’t good at patience, or doing the whole ‘the customer is always right’ thing. The other three manage the job just fine, although Spencer hates the politics of it. Spencer thinks that job segregation is stupid. Spit and blood and come aren’t going to be in food regardless of if he’s infected or not, so he shouldn’t have to work in a coffeehouse clearly designated as a wolf-run establishment. Bob’s only real opinion is that it makes _his_ job easier. The closer everyone is the less time it takes him to get from one to the next if it’s a particularly needy night.

When he walks in Pete has a spray bottle in one hand, and a roll of paper towels in the other. He’s in his uniform black, which looks good against all the tattoos lining his arms. He looks up from the table he’s scrubbing as the door thumps closed. He frowns for an instant before grinning in a way that’s patently Wentz.

“Hey Bob. It wasn’t me that called. And Mikey’s not working today. Spencer’s in the back making buns. I guess-”

Bob interrupts, “no, it was just an odds thing.”

“As long as you know it wasn’t me.”

It’s hardly ever Pete. Which is bad, frankly. Every now and then Bob has to have the _we do this for a reason_ talk with him. Numerous studies over many decades have proven non-pack werewolves with sated sex drives are eighty seven percent less likely to go feral. As much as it makes Pete upset to fuck someone in his not found pack it’s still better than shredding a picnicking family.

A customer comes in and Pete hurries back to the register, calling out “sit where you want” behind his shoulder. Bob takes him up on the suggestion and sits, plunking his backpack on the table. It’s massive and has about a thousand tiny zippered compartments. It holds everything Bob needs to live for a week or more without going home. It’s not insane hypervigilance, it’s happened before. His clients have needs.

Bob’s just barely struggled his sandwich out of the clingy evil that’s called saran wrap when his phone rings. He hopes it’s not Brian calling him to his cubicle farm. Nothing against Brian, it’s just he just settled in. There’s no routine in his job, so Bob relies on the spurts of downtime.

With a bit of a sigh Bob fishes his phone out. It’s contract law that he has to answer. If it can be proven he had a chance to answer and didn’t -which is basically any situation except post car crash comas- he can be fired on the spot.

Contact info flashing says not Brian, it’s Spencer. Bob doesn’t even bother to check the message, just heads for the staff room.

Spencer is sitting on the worn couch and when he looks up it’s not a Wentzian grin, it’s a low slutty smirk. “Wow, that was quick. I just texted to see if you could get here in less than ten, seeing as my break is only fifteen. I guess you can.”

“And we have the whole fifteen to work with.” Bob takes Spencer after he stands, pulling him in with a hand on his pretty little face. It won’t surprise him if they spend the whole fifteen kissing, with only a knee between Spencer’s legs to get him off. Spencer’s got kind of a thing for beard burn.

“I know it’s a bit early,” Spencer says in their first break for air. Bob is strong, he keeps the rolling of eyes to a gesture by imaginary him inside his head. Spencer is the most erratic of his five clients. In Spencer’s point of view it’s never too late or too early. “It’s just I’m wearing something new.”

It’s fifty-fifty for whether that means a sex toy or an article of clothing. Though you could say the clothes Spencer gets turned on are one in the same. If something gets a person off, no matter how innocuous it is, shouldn’t be considered a sex toy?

“Show me,” Bob growls.

Spencer reaches for his fly and pulls down the zipper. It doesn’t do much to loosen his tight jeans, but now Bob can see a scrap of red. “Panties, Spencer?”

Spencer hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and tugs down until they’re mid-thigh. Bob takes in the sight for a moment, equal parts because he wants to and because Spencer wants him to want to. They’re solid red, no pattern. No lace or bows either. The only thing that stops them from being granny panties are the cut. It’s a pair Bob hasn’t seen before. It’s impossible to say whether that means Spencer’s just bought them, or that they haven’t been in circulation yet. Spencer’s worn quite a few pairs in the time Bob’s worked with him.

“Nice Spencer. Pretty.”

He immediately breaks the stance of a shy boy showing off to leap forward and grind against Bob. Knowing his role Bob grabs Spencer’s ass, a cheek in each hand, and holds him close. When Spencer’s like this he doesn’t want to bother with fingers or mouths, he just wants pressure to rut against. Bob can provide that as easily as he can provide a thousand other things.

“Fuuuuh,” Spencer mutters into Bob’s shoulder. No doubt he’s leaving a wet spot. Bob doesn’t really mind. He’s immune to the effects of werewolf bodily fluids. Spencer could bleed six liters of blood in his mouth and Bob wouldn’t turn. He’s wearing all black so it’ll hardly be noticeable, and even if someone does, well, he’s a CIW. It’s expected.

A few more hard jerks of his hips and he comes, red underwear darkening. Bob eases his grip first, tilts his head for a come-down kiss next, and does a quick check to make sure Spencer can hold up his own weight before letting go. He needs his backpack from the front of the building. Among the hundred other things he’s got a pair of underwear for each of his clients. You never know when one will need to change theirs.

It’s ten past five when Pete clocks out, the last of his clients to leave Moon Roast. Bob’s spent the last twenty minutes nagging him about needing to have sex. The time before that was spent fucking Spencer twice, getting fucked by Wynne once, blowing Brian, having a nap at Brian’s, and eating about half a dozen of Moon Roast’s fresh cookies. Pete’s worked his eight hours, and now he gets to go home. Of course, a normal eight hour shift has nothing to do with Bob. His shift isn’t done yet. His shift is over in about twenty years. Twenty five, tops. He’s never heard of a working older than fifty. It’s why he gets paid the moderately big bucks. He doesn’t get time off, he gets thirty five years of overtime pay.

Rather than needlessly frustrate himself by following Pete to his apartment, he goes to Brian’s. Brian’s pretty much on the opposite side of the frustration-contentment spectrum that Pete is. They were friends before Brian got infected, and what they have now is a lot more like friends with benefits than a client-CIW relationship. It’s not that Bob’s not friendly with the other four, it’s not like Bob can refuse to fulfill Brian’s needs. It’s just there’s a standard of professionalism that doesn’t as much come into play at Brian’s house. He can watch tv while giving Brian a handjob, or roll his eyes and say ‘what, _again_?’ instead of pretending to be into every second of it. With Brian it can just be a task, not a mind blowing experience.

Bob’s halfway through a beer when his phone buzzes with a text. He’s not drunk -he’s not really allowed to get drunk when he might have to get in a car at any time- but he still insists on finishing the can before he picks up his phone. It’s technically a dereliction of duty, but it’s not like Brian will tell on him.

**family emergency. can we talk?**

Bob kisses Brian on the cheek. “Duty calls.”

“Have fun,” Brian replies.

The drive is less than five minutes. Bob spends the entire time wondering what kind of thing Mikey is going to want from him. A lot of things match on their extensive kink checklists. Each client of his has one. When a werewolf signs up to request government relief they have to fill out all the things they might or will want to do. In Bob’s experience it either really matters or really doesn’t. As of now he’s got four clients that need frequent sex -as much as Pete tries to withhold- and one client that needs frequent sex and wants each time to be different. Mikey’s checklist matters.

When he sees Mikey sitting on the step Bob figures it’s time for outdoor sex again. But Mikey doesn’t go for his junk. Instead he says “I want to kick my brother in the teeth. Don’t let me kick my brother in the teeth. Even though I really want to kick my brother in the teeth.”

“What happened?” In the past Bob’s had angry clients, but Mikey isn’t one.

“Gerard had a threesome with Frank and Jamia. That fuckin’ sniffer.”

Bob doesn’t gasp at the slur. He’s been around. Instead he sits on the scant inches Mikey’s left for him. He braces his foot against the frosty grass so he won’t fall, and settles in to listen to a rant.

“Said it felt right. And you know the worst fuckin’ thing? They’re pack. Frank and Jamia and their friends Lindsey and Jimmy and Chantel. One life ruining mistake and he’s got pack. Where the fuck is my fucking pack?”

“I don’t know what to tell you. No one knows how it works.”

“Yeah.”

“You might get yours tomorrow, then I’m out a client.”

Mikey snorts. “There are one point one million non-pack werewolves in the United States. One million plus werewolves with bodily fluids more contagious than an ebola strain of the flu who can’t bear to have sex with other non-pack werewolves but will turn a human if their genitals so much as look at each other. I’m sure a Certified Immune Worker can find another partner.”

Bob shrugs. It’s obviously the truth. He’s got five, the optimal number as set by the government, and he’ll always have five. But he does like the five he has right now. “I’ve got you.”

“Lucky you,” Mikey replies despondently.

Bob leans in and kisses Mikey’s neck. Bob likes kissing there. In his opinion Mikey’s neck is one of his best features. It’s even sexier when he’s got his head tilted back like he wants some beast to tear into him. Bob likes being that guy. Rough sex isn’t what Mikey’s looking for now though, so Bob keeps his kisses light, sweet. Barely even sexual. He can dial it up to ten if he needs to, but he doubts he will. A decade of sex for hire, you get used to reading moods.

They’re still kissing on the step when Bob’s phone rings. As per the rules, Bob pulls away to check it. It’s Spencer.

“One of the guys wants to see me immediately. You want to have a handjob before I go?”

Mikey shakes his head. “Come back if you have time though.”

“I will.” Bob feels confident in saying so. Brian’s usually good for once a day. Wynne has his morning and lunch routine, but he’s usually in bed before nine, which is barely evening for Mikey.

Spencer’s apartment is further from Moon Roast than any other of Bob’s clients. Bob knows shortcuts, of course, knows exactly how to get from any of their houses or workplace from any other house or workplace. When he finally gets there it’s obvious Spencer hadn’t had much patience; the door visitors are supposed to be buzzed through is propped open with a wad of flyers.

Unsurprisingly, the door of his apartment is unlocked too. The only light on is in the kitchen. Spencer’s big on saving the environment by doing dumb little things, like using as little electricity as possible and not buying bottles of water. Bob puts his backpack on the mat where dirty shoes are supposed to go, and then calls into the kitchen. “You wanted me to see a complete outfit?”

Spencer steps out, completely clothed. The jeans have rhinestones and the t-shirt is v-necked and tight fitting, but it’s by no means the girliest thing Bob’s seen Spencer wear. He knows before Spencer speaks he got the wrong impression. 

“No. I mean yeah, we could. But really I want a goodbye fuck.”

Bob raises his eyebrows, and Spencer continues. “My best friend got blown a month ago by someone that didn’t state their status. He’s been too ashamed to tell me until now. My flight’s already booked. I’m, uh. I’ll probably not be coming back.”

Bob can’t say his goodbye technique is too much different. Just maybe he’ll try to remember this time rather than let it fade into a third of a life spent fucking. But in the end Bob will come, and Spencer will come, and then Bob will move on to the next client that needs him. It's the career he chose, the life he chose. It's what he does.


End file.
